Nigel Latta - Mothers Raising Sons

Its just before eight in the morning, and Im the first act in a one-act play. Im talking to 300 teenage boys, aged between 13 and 15, and their dads at the annual father-and-son breakfast at a boys high school. I wasnt given much of a briefing, other than being told that I couldnt swear, and to try to make it entertaining.

The not-swearing bit made it a lot harder. If Id been able to walk out on the stage and say something to the effect of Why do you guys start so fucking early? I would have had them right there.

Id have to rely on Plan B.

Sauntering into the hall, they look a bit like migrating buffalo coming down to the waterhole just after sunrise, blowing clouds of white smoke in the brisk morning air, full of noise and promise.

Its a tough crowd.

I recognize all the different types of boy. Theres the popular boy, the trainee alpha male whos big, good-looking, and surrounded by his copious mates. Then theres the wannabe cool guy, the guy who doesnt quite cut it and is too young to know that none of that stuff means anything anyway. Theres the clown, the boy whos got a quick mind but whos yet to learn the value of stillness and the comforts of silence. Eventually, hell realize these things are nothing to be afraid of, but for now they make him nervous so he fills them with crackle and pop. Then there are the fringe boys, the ones who dont fit the mould, the musicians, the school librarian types, the bookish kids with glasses and slender frames, none of them knowing that theyre much more likely to be the kings and kingmakers. And dotted here and there are the free spirits, boys who dont want to play the stupid macho games of the herd. Theyre not popular and dont want to be. Bullies, too; I see one or two of them in the crowd with a couple of the inevitable henchmen in tow.

All of them are there, every shape and size you can imagine.

As they come in, they punch and shove each other, laughing and jostling and larking about as naturally as breathing. This is simply what boys do in large groups, and in small groups, too, for that matter. Elbows into ribs, and fists into shoulders like an army band keeping the beat. None of the teachers even seem to notice the buzzing nonsense, or if they do they simply accept it for what it is.

Once the boys have settled, the principal stands up and a hush falls on the place with a well practised grace. Good morning, boys, he says, and I half expect them to answer back but he pushes on. This year at the father-and-son breakfast we are lucky enough to have the pleasure of Mr Latta speaking to us.

I feel a gazillion boy-eyes throw me a slightly disinterested gaze for a second or two before swinging back to the principal.

Mr Latta is a psychologist who works a lot with young men and their families, and he has worked for many years with criminals as well. So, Im sure youre going to find this a very interesting and very entertaining address. Without further ado, will you please welcome Mr Latta in the customary way.

Three hundred boys start to clap and it sounds a little like a cross between the first roll of fresh thunder and a taunt. I told the principal to amp up the criminal stuff when he introduced me, because I thought that might at least pique their interest. I wish hed amped it a little more. The fact that hed said it was going to be interesting and entertaining was unfortunate as well. Id been a schoolboy once myself and Id had more than a few adults come in and talk at assemblies about various things. Usually they were pretty dull. If Id been told by my principal that they were going to be entertaining, I would have switched off then and there just to prove him wrong.

This is the point where you take a deep breath and jump.

Right, I say, striding out onto the stage. So who thinks their mums go on about stuff too much?

They sit there, giving each other the look.

Come on, you wombats, I say. Im not taking any names. I wont actually tell your mothers. Give me a show of hands: who thinks their mums go on about stuff too much?

I swear to God that 95% of the hands in the room went up. I even saw some dads with their hands in the air.

Right, now whose dad does stuff like hangs up the bathmat the way mum thinks it should be done?

About 75% of the hands went up.

And who thinks their dad gives in too easily to their mum, that their dad should put his foot down and tell her that hes not going to fold it the way she wants?

About 95% put their hands up.

OK, and who thinks that when you eventually grow up, and get married or live with some girl that youre gonna tell her youre not gonna put the bathmat the way she wants, that youre gonna put it how you want?

I watched what looked like 100% of those strong young hands thrust manfully up in the air.

Me and the rest of the dads laughed our arses off.

Ah, my young princes, I finally said, you guys have got a lot to learn about life.

They didnt understand, but then how could they? These young men were just starting off on their own journey, and had yet to discover that eventually we all put the bathroom mat the way she wants. Not because we care about the mat, because we dont, and not because we think shes right, because we dont.

We do it simply because its easier that way.

All kinds of trials and tribulations lay stretched out before these young men. Decisions both grand and trivial were scattered all along the way. Some of them theyd already begun to think about, and some they had no idea even existed. Some amongst them might go on to true greatness, and most would simply go on to live good lives. One or two of them might even end up in jail. Life is a complicated, perilous thing, yet somehow they would all eventually find their place in it. For some the road would be straight and well marked, and for others the road would be less travelled.

I love talking to groups like that, because the possibilities are so bright you cant help but feel some hope for this tired old world we live in.

So I made them laugh for a bit, and told them funny stories about dumb criminals Ive met in my travels. Then, when I judged that breakfast was becoming more of a focus than I was, I asked them a final question: How many of your mums get annoyed because you guys leave wee drops of pee on the toilet floor?

No hands went up, but they laughed.

You know what I mean, wee sticky drips you only find when you step on them?

More laugher; no hands.

Who thinks mums make too big a fuss about wee drips of pee?

This time about 80% of the hands went up.

So you think its completely unreasonable for your mums to get annoyed about pee on the floor when theres a perfectly good toilet right beside it?

The enthusiastic nodding that they did was as clear an example of the difference between the worlds of boys and the worlds of mothers as you could ever hope to find. They really dont care about the little drips of pee. My hope is that by the end of this book, amongst a bunch of other things, youll understand a little bit more about why that is.

You also might be pleased to know that I sent those youngsters away with this final thought:

Be nice to your mum, pick up your socks and make her cups of tea. She isnt going on about stuffthats simply what good mothers do. Besides, shes the only one youll ever have, so look after her.

One of the best things in the world to be is a boy; it requires no experience, but needs some practice to be a good one.

Charles Dudley (1829-1900)

In many ways, the smart thing to do with this book would have been to buy into all the drama floating around out there about boys, because fear is the best motivator you can get to make people buy books. If Id called the book